Eternal Flame
by Ms. SpearBourne
Summary: Years after the events of the love triangle, Erik just wants a chance to see Christine again, and reincarnation is the only way he can. Implied E/C, Grayla
1. Without You

_A/N: Oh, what can I say about this? It could be any version of Erik, but, when I wrote this, I - Nah, it doesn't matter. Take it as you wish. Years after the events of the love triangle, he just wants a chance to see Christine again, and reincarnation is the only way he can._

She was gone, and there was no bringing her back. What was in this world for Erik if Christine were no longer by his side? "I can't live if living is without you," he lamented to the sketch of her face he'd made so many years ago.

Only death would release him from this torment, but then he'd face an eternity without her voice to comfort him.

Maybe that's exactly what he deserved after all he'd done in his miserable life. Was there even an afterlife? The only way he could know would be to end this life, but he wasn't ready for that yet.

There was one thing still to do.

* * *

After a life longer than, perhaps, it should have been, Erik, the dreaded Living Corpse, the Phantom of the Opera himself, was ready to die.

And, if what that old Roma woman had said was true, he would have another chance to see his darling Christine.

Or he'd send whatever soul he had to oblivion. Either way, his anguish would come to an end.

He lit the candle, recited the words, and hoped for the best.

* * *

There was an emptiness within him that he feared would never be filled. It was as though he were trapped within a void and couldn't figure out a way to escape it.

His mother tried to interest him in hobbies, but, with his father in the military, they frequently moved, and any connections he'd made to people or locations would have to be promptly and abruptly severed. Friendships could barely be made before he'd have to say goodbye.

Music was the one constant in his life. He tried to avoid amassing too great a record collection lest his father make him leave it behind someday.

"There's a music store next door," he remarked to his mother. "Is it okay if I go see what they have?"

She thought for a moment. "All right. But don't buy anything until I've seen it."

He nodded before dashing off. It didn't matter if he left empty-handed; it was better than watching his mother peruse the shelves of threads and ribbons and lace.

He inhaled, taking the scents of wood and strings and vinyl deep into his teenaged lungs. A piece of random instrumental music drifted from the speakers. He wandered slowly through the shop, considering every instrument he saw.

Perhaps he could try playing the flute. No, it didn't feel right in his hands. The cello was far too big; his father would never let him keep it. He decided a saxophone was too loud. The violin seemed reasonable; whether his father would think so was another matter.

He finally found a place to sit and rest; his mother had insisted he join her while she went shopping, and he was tired. He leaned back and bumped the piano. He immediately whirled around and placed his hands on the keys.

Something felt familiar about this. Tentatively, he pressed one finger down, then another. Before he realised what he was doing, he was composing a song.

"Greg, when did you learn - ?" his astonished mother breathed.

Without stopping, he admitted he didn't know. This was his first time he'd ever even touched a piano.

"Well," she began, "obviously, we can't get a grand piano, but maybe they have something smaller? It would be such a pity to let talent like yours go to waste."

That word - _pity_ - left a bitter taste in his mouth. He wouldn't complain, though, if she were really willing to buy him something that he thought might start to fill that emptiness inside of him.


	2. Can't Fight This Feeling

_Fifteen years later . . ._

Why had he agreed to come here? He was uncomfortable in crowds, even more so at parties. True, it was his favourite professor that had suggested he attend, but that daughter of his couldn't possibly be worth -

That's when he caught sight of a woman who took his breath away. He felt rooted to the floor. He was terrified to introduce himself to her, but he was horrified by the prospect of not knowing her.

By the time he summoned up the courage to move his feet, he noticed his professor talking to her. Was Dr. Becker actually pointing him out to her?

Yes, he was, and he was beckoning them to join them.

He swallowed the nervous lump that had formed in his throat and made his way across the room.

"Gregory House, this is Aileen Adler Becker, my daughter. Aileen, this is Dr. House, the brilliant student I was telling you about."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. House." She smiled as she extended a delicate hand to him.

"Uh, likewise," he croaked as he took her hand in his. _Adler-Becker?_ She was married? He thought he wouldn't have a chance with her; now he knew he wouldn't have even a chance to try.

Becker left them so he could talk with someone. "We've just kept missing each other all week."

"So . . ." House hummed. "Eileen, like that song from a few years back."

She chuckled softly; he liked the sound. "My name starts with an _A_, but yeah. And my middle name's Layla, so there's another song." She pushed a stray lock of dark hair out of her eyes.

"I bet your husband teases you with that," he remarked off-handedly.

"My hus-" she began, confused. "I'm not - Oh. No, no. My stepfather was Adler, and, when I was a ballet dancer, I used his name. Aileen Adler - the double A looked good, or so the directors thought." She accepted the drink a waiter brought her. "Thank you."

House relaxed, but the tension returned to his body a moment later. She was single, so he might have a shot, but he was still, unbearably, _him_.

Becker returned; he wanted to introduce Aileen to someone else. When she noticed the look on his face, she assured him it was only ginger ale she was drinking.

"Why would . . ." House's voice trailed off. "Never mind."

She chuckled once more. "I'm seventeen," she explained. "Or, that is, I will be next week."

He was at once surprised and impressed. "You're sixteen and attending Hopkins?" He _really_ didn't have a shot.

She inclined her head modestly. "I'll be attending Harvard Med in the fall."

"I, uh, wow." He was, for one of the few times in his life, at a loss for words. "Do you mind if I have a sip of that?"

"Oh, sure," she replied lightly. "No one ever dances at these things," she murmured.

"Would you like to?" he offered impulsively.

She immediately brightened. "I'd love to."

Just as she said that, the DJ put on an REO Speedwagon ballad. House didn't know where to put his hands. She solved his conundrum by taking one of his hands and placing it at her waist.

Something within her stirred, as though his touch had awakened a part of her she hadn't realised had been sleeping all this time. He felt familiar to her somehow.

_'How is this possible?'_ she wondered.

_'It's her. She's th-'_ His mind couldn't complete the thought. He refused to allow himself to feel anything for a teenager, especially when she was so close and warm and soft in his arms.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the song was over. Everyone applauded but her father. The pair smiled self-consciously.

A woman neither of them knew made her way over to them. "How long have the two of you been singing together?"

"Were we singing?" Aileen whispered. "It's - Since the, uh, the day we met." She giggled nervously.

"Well, I think it's simply wonderful when a couple can share something as beautiful as that. Your voices sound as though they were made for each other!"

_Made for each other._

The woman's words echoed in their ears for the rest of the night.

* * *

"Dad, calm down. We didn't even realise -"

"You shouldn't even have been dancing together! He's twice your age, for goodness' sake!"

"I'm not fourteen, Dad," she reminded him flatly.

He stopped pacing. "Don't you talk back to me, young lady. I only wanted you to meet him so you could help him improve his bedside manner. Not so you could, pfft, _perform_ together!"

She huffed out a breath. "I know. That's why he asked me out for coffee this afternoon. He's willing to work on it."

"Yeah, I'll bet he is," Becker mumbled.

"Yes, Dad. A man like him is really interested in a girl like me. We're getting together as psychologist and patient; that's all."

"That had better be all it is, Leenie. He is not the kind of man to - I just don't want to see you get hurt."

She took a deep breath to give herself time to rein in her emotions. "I know, Dad. You're just looking out for me like you always do. He's . . . interesting. As a case study. It's not like we're ever going to be alone together. Just talking. At a cafe where there will be other people. No harm in that, right?"

* * *

_A/N: Well, there you have it. It's a slightly different version of Grayla's beginning, but this whole idea was bouncing around in my head for years, ever since I saw the episode Half-Wit. I blame that episode for making me "realise" that House was Erik; it was his need to "see the music" so he could be a better pianist that did it._  
_Two brilliant but grouchy men, each fascinating in his own way, capable of such tragic love . . . There are too many plot bunnies hopping around in my head. Dark, fanged, red-eyed plot bunnies . . ._  
_Not sure when or even if I'll continue this; it depends on how much free time I have after working on my site, what with the other fics I have in progress. I have a really vague idea cooking at the back of my head . . ._


End file.
